Page 57 of Managing the Major

He unfastened the buttons on her wool jacket one by one with his right hand, watching the rise and fall of her breasts.

“I disapproved of you because the feelings you aroused weren’t welcome. It was too soon for me to feel so strongly. Too soon to be attracted to a woman. I’d been living like a hermit for years, Octavia. Until you.”

Freeing the last of her buttons, he inched the garment down one shoulder at a time until it slid and rested at her elbows, effectively restraining her arms.

He surveyed the exposed bodice of her blouse with hooded eyes, and a muscle ticked in his cheek. Octavia wavered between self-consciousness and excitement as her breasts pushed against the thin cambric blouse. She never wore a corset to ride, only stays and a chemise. Under his gaze, the pink crests of her nipples tightened against the silk undergarment, agonizingly aware of his regard.

Alastair caught his breath sharply and expelled it in a slow hiss. She shrugged the jacket from her arms, and it slipped to the floor. When her hands lifted to the delicate buttons of the blouse, he closed his eyes for a moment. They flickered open, and he slowly shook his head.

“Believe me, Octavia, I have dreamed of undressing you, but not here. Though, God help me, I don’t have the strength to walk away without touching you.”

His breath echoed harshly in the small space, and she drank in the sight of him. Through the vee of the loose shirt, a dusting of blond hair and the suggestion of his muscular torso were visible against the linen. When she glanced at his hips, her heart beat faster. The snug buckskin breeches did little to hide the blatant evidence of his masculinity.

She quivered like a bow strung too tightly, intoxicated by the palpable heat rising from his skin and the scent of him, densely herbal and undeniably male. He closed the distance between them until her skirt brushed the columns of his thighs. Panting slightly, she watched him pull the blouse from her skirt and slide his hand underneath to rest on the curve of her stomach.

The rapid rise and fall of her breasts seemed to enthrall him. Finally, his splayed fingers slid over the curve of one breast, and his thumb brushed the point of her nipple through the silk chemise. Octavia thought her legs might buckle, as an exquisite jolt pulsed to the core of her femininity. He took the taut bead, rolling it between his fingers, then lowered his head and closed his mouth around it, sucking gently. She bit off a fractured moan and felt him push the heated length of his arousal to the apex of her thighs.

His left hand moved to the small of her back as his mouth traveled upward, resting in the hollow of her collarbone.

“Am I shocking you?” he asked against her throat in a gravelly voice. “Should I stop?”

“No,” it was more of a gasp than a coherent word. Her hands moved through his hair, pulling him closer. She could feel his erection pulsing into her aching center as he found the other nipple, using his tongue to tease her before finally drawing it into his mouth. A wave of pleasure wracked her body, and she arched into his hips, desperately finding his rigid shaft. He groaned heavily and thrust against her.

“Oh, please don’t stop…Alastair…I want…” She didn’t know what she was asking for, but the knot of tension inside was unbearable.

“Shall I show you what you need?” he asked in a thick voice she hardly recognized.

“Yes,” she pleaded, saturated with need.

He shifted her against the stack of hay, and she felt the coarse prickle through layers of cotton and wool as his hand lifted her skirts, moving underneath to her cotton stocking.

His mouth slid across her throat. “Do you ever give yourself pleasure?” he asked thickly. “Perhaps like this?” She held her breath as his hand slowly slid up her inner thigh to the junction between her legs. He cupped her mound, then found the pulsing core, slipping his fingers across the silk fabric of her drawers to caress it.

She twisted with pleasure. “Alastair…” It was hardly a word.

He kissed along the line of her throat, his lips settling in the hollow at the base of her neck. “Tell me, Octavia, do you?”

“Sometimes I try to, but then I can’t bear it anymore and…Alastair…”

She shook in a maelstrom of pleasure and anticipation, as his fingers stroked the sensitive pearl between her folds. The exquisite friction against the wet silk drove her to arch upward, seeking more.

“You’re so responsive, so ready,” he muttered hoarsely. “Bloody hell, I don’t think I’ve ever been this hard in my life.”

“Please…don’t…I—I…”

“My darling girl, let it happen; I have you safe.”

She bit her lip to keep from crying out as the sensation built and built, then spiraled out of control into a series of breathless shudders.

Trembling, she collapsed against his chest, beyond words for several moments. Alastair enfolded her, kissing her temple and cheek, allowing everything to slow and right itself.

“How did you…what was that?” she finally whispered. His breathing had also become less harsh, and the fierce heat of his body abated somewhat.

“I helped you find release for your passion. The French call it le petit morte.”

“Well, if I died, then that was heaven.” She raised her head, blinking at him. “Are you… I mean, did you have the same…release? What should I do?”

“Nothing.” He touched his lips to hers. “This was your time, sweetheart.”